Year Five
by stillroisin
Summary: Tristan and his mates don't have any Dark Wizards to fight, couldn't be bothered with Quidditch, and find the wild stories about 'The Boy Who Lived' patently absurd. Theirs is the realm of rumours, rebellion, and Recreational Magic. (Philosopher's Stone from the perspective of Hogwarts' resident Hex Heads :: 100% Canon Accurate)
1. Prologue: Dozens of Little Televisions

**Cross-posting from HPFF, shooting for weekly updates :) If you want to read on but this isn't fully posted yet, or you want to see the shiny chapter images of the characters, I uploaded it there under the author name Roisin. I'm doing a big revision of the story though, so edited chapters will be posted here just as soon as they're polished. (And for the curious, my faceclaim for Tristan is Craig Roberts).  
**

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 _Author's Warning:_ _Sex is implied, drugs are prevalent, and Rock n' Roll is involved. Proceed accordingly!_

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 **Prologue: Dozens of Little Televisions**

SOPHIE had made the decision to slip out before dawn. It was a cold, callous thing to do—and that was precisely what she wanted. Two weeks prior she'd been chucked by her first boyfriend, Stuart, on the basis that, according to their interconnected network of friends, she had been "needy." It had been with superior smirks that those friends closest to her relayed every detail they had heard. That she'd clung to him. That she'd rung too often. That she'd said, after only a fortnight of solid dating, that she loved him.

The humiliation of it still stung, and so she wanted nothing more now than to eschew her old self. To rebrand herself as mature, aloof, and mysterious. It was with these dazzling images in mind, then, that Sophie had decided to creep out in the early hours, leaving that strange, sleeping boy to wake up alone.

The sky was already edging toward the deep electric blue that just proceeds first light and it was time to get moving. She'd slept an hour at most, if you could call it sleep. Mostly she'd stared at the collage of polaroids crusting the wall. They all seemed to have been taken in the same Highland meadow, possibly on the same day. One of three girls featured in every photo, each wearing the same odd, baggy black dress. Sophie's eyes had retraced that same smudged calligraphy beneath each picture a thousand times while the chest beside her had risen and fallen in tedious rhythm. Lying in a foreign room, in a foreign bed, beside an unfamiliar boy made it impossible for Sophie to relax. And the strangeness of the night and his behavior—really, of him—had kept her on edge.

It had been late when they'd gotten to Tristan's house the night before. They spent at least two hours sharing a spliff, chain-smoking, and listening to records with the volume turned way down before anything started. She'd resented how reluctant he'd seemed to make a move, and how much more interested he'd been in the nearly inaudible music. His dry mouth had tasted like stale lager and cigarettes.

Sophie stole a last look at Tristan, his dark hair rendered a mess of cowlicks, before disengaging herself from the tangled covers. It took several slow, halting movements before she was free in the bed. Then he began to stir. It was almost as if he'd felt her presence vanish. She held still until she was certain he would remain asleep.

Tristan wasn't particularly good looking, she decided. He had a weak chin, small mouth, and round, feverish eyes. But he'd been witty, and a little dark—and getting off with a boy who went to school abroad was an ideal scenario. Sophie was already rehearsing the story she would tell her mates (a story that would, invariably, get back to Stuart). Yet, standing there in Tristan's grey Joy Division t-shirt, still as a statue so as not to wake him, Sophie let herself admit that it had been a confusing night.

She glanced around the room he'd hastily cleaned only a few hours before. Clothing appeared to have been torn off hangers and surfaces had been unceremoniously swept off into an over-sized, overstuffed, old fashioned looking trunk. He'd made her wait in the hall while he'd crashed around his room on (what Sophie had imagined) was a massive dirty-pants-and-dirty-books-hiding expedition. He'd even gone so far as to clear off entire bookshelves.

Even stranger, he'd tried to stop her from seeing any of his house when he first snuck her in. He'd insisted she close her eyes the whole time, which made it almost impossible to avoid making noise and being discovered by his parents (which he'd insisted would be disastrous). Yet, once inside his room, he produced a spliff and an overflowing ashtray. Sophie would never be so bold as to smoke in her bedroom.

Perhaps, she mused, his parents were drug addicts of some kind: junkies who didn't care whether or not their kids smoked. That might explain why he was so adamant that she didn't see any of his house. Maybe he'd been ashamed of the needles, or whatever other contraband addicts left lying around? The idea also gave some explanation for his brooding nature (a tendency she'd initially found alluring).

But Sophie wasn't convinced by this explanation. What sorts of junkies sent their children to prestigious schools in Switzerland? And Tristan appeared far too well cared for. The snacks he'd brought up from his kitchen (on a trip downstairs he'd forbidden her from joining) suggested his parents kept a well-stocked pantry. From what little glimpses she had stolen of his house, it appeared tidy and typically lower middle-class. Hardly a den of squalid inequity like the ones in the BBC specials she'd seen on addiction.

The sky was getting lighter, and Sophie needed to use the toilet urgently. Regardless of Tristan's domestic situation, she definitely wanted to escape this house before his mysterious parents rose. She dressed in a hurry; uncomfortably aware that her clothes reeked of smoke, and of how much she needed a shower. With as much delicacy as she could muster, Sophie unlatched Tristan's door, turned the knob, and pushed—careful not to let it creak. She dared open it only enough to let herself out, and after checking she had all of her things, closed it with as much care. A wave of fresh air from the other side of the door came as a shock. The mingling tobacco and cannabis stink from last night seemed not to want to cross the threshold.

Tristan's room was just off the stairs, and his short hall ended with an open door leading to a study, sporting a state of the art Macintosh. _Definitely not junkies, then._ The hall turned a corner to the left, beyond which was the probable location of the toilet, as well as the danger zone of his parents' bedroom. Slipping her ankle boots back off, she padded down the hall as silently as she could.

She turned the corner and flinched. Just beyond the bend was a riot of motion.

The way other families would hang family portraits in clusters along their halls, Tristan's parents had installed dozens of little televisions. They seemed to be playing loops of people just waving, or standing around and smiling, but all the small movements added up to a stunning overall effect.

Sophie's mind went into overdrive trying to figure this new piece of information into the mystery. _Were they artists? Incredibly wealthy? Engineers of some kind?_ As her thoughts flitted helplessly from explanation to explanation, she started to notice how strange the technology truly was. The little screens looked nothing like televisions, and seemed to hang flat against the wall like no telly or computer she'd ever seen. Having completely forgotten about her need for a toilet or her fear of waking Tristan's parents, Sophie approached one of the devices playing a (very boring) video. It looked like Tristan, maybe six years old, sullenly sitting before the camera, tugging uncomfortably at his clothes and half-heartedly playing with bits of dust on the carpet.

The object seemed just like a framed photograph, only the subject was moving. Sophie found that with incredible ease, she could remove it from the wall. It wasn't wired in or anything, just hanging on a nail! The back even looked like any normal picture frame she'd ever seen, down to the metal prongs to hold the photo in its cardboard backing. She turned the thing over to examine its front again, then dropped it out of shock. The image was still moving.

Sophie heard the glass shatter, and then her own startled voice. Other noises followed—scraping and clamoring—but she was engrossed in the strange thing she'd just dropped. The video of young-Tristan had fallen face up. It looked _startled_ , blinking up at her from the floor as though noticing it had been dropped.

"Who—what—"

Sophie's head jerked up and traded stunned expressions with Tristan's mother. Still in her nightdress and without a robe, she looked about mid-thirties. Her face was still young and pretty, if rumpled by sleep, but her mousy hair was prematurely grayed. She had the wild looking eyes of the suddenly woken and terrified, which darted rapidly between Sophie and the wreckage on the hall carpet.

"Tell me," the woman gulped. "Tell me you're not—tell me you go to school with Tristan." Tristan's mum was taking short, measured breaths.

Sophie was taken aback. Rather than consider what the woman's request might mean, her eyes drifted back down to child-Tristan on the floor. Whatever was playing the still-moving image had slipped partially out of the shattered glass. It was as thin as paper, otherwise indistinguishable from an ordinary photograph.

"I—" Sophie began, avoiding the woman's blood-shot eyes. "I go to school here in London with Amy, and Amy… Amy went to primary school with Tristan, yeah? I know Tristan… I know him through Amy?"

"Eddie!" called the woman, appearing more scared than angry. "Eddie! Tristan!"

Tristan's mother stepped over the shards of glass and took Sophie's arm in a gentle hand, leading her back down the hall and around the corner. "I'm sorry," she continued. "I don't mean to frighten you, you aren't in any trouble it's just… it's just Tristan hadn't told us anyone was staying over." The woman's voice became more calm as she began to take charge.

As they approached the stairway she rapped on his door and gestured for Sophie to proceed down the steps. Tristan's groggy face emerged before growing somber at once. His mother said nothing and continued to lead Sophie down the stairs. Sophie glanced up to see 'Eddie' turn around the corner in a bathrobe, his light hair a mess from sleep and a mask of confusion on what appeared an otherwise kindly face.

Tristan's mother steered Sophie into a sitting room that appeared equal parts average and bizarre, as though someone from the middle-ages had decorated with an Ikea catalog. Modern looking chairs and sofas were arranged in front of the fireplace, but feathered quills, ink-wells, and scrolls of parchment littered the coffee table. Flanking the hearth were two bookshelves, housing both glossy paperbacks and ancient, leather-bound volumes. On the mantle Sophie saw a number of strange instruments, like the clever toys that decorated office desks, only antique looking. Last of all, Sophie let herself puzzle over the fireplace where hung, what appeared to be, a large, pewter cauldron.

"There then, have a seat, I'll make you a cup of tea." Tristan's mother headed off to the kitchen, but turned back just as quickly, clearly frantic. "I'm so sorry, where are my manners, I'm Mary. What's your name dear?"

"Sophie," she said, inflecting her own name like a question.

"Sophie, lovely," Mary replied absently.

Tristan's still-bewildered father paused at the edge of the sitting room.

"This is my husband. Tristan's father," Mary added unnecessarily.

"Eddie." He smiled.

"Eddie dear, why don't you have a seat too, I'll make you a cup of tea as well."

Mary strode back toward the kitchen and Sophie heard her whisper angrily up the stairs at her son. Sophie got the distinct impression Eddie was meant to watch her, lest she flee.

"So sorry, Sophie, for all the anxiousness," Eddie said. "You see, my wife and I do very confidential work for the government. Developing technology and that. Tristan knows we've got loads of—oh thank you dear." Mary was back already with two steaming mugs, pausing for a moment to consider each with a frown before passing them over. "Anyway," Eddie went on. "We've got loads of stuff round the house, confidential government projects, all very hush-hush."

Sophie listened politely, blowing on her tea, but still felt bewildered by Eddie's casual tone. "Those moving… photographs?"

"Yes, those for one. Microchip computer technology, amazing what we can do these days."

Sophie sipped her tea and sighed despite herself, feeling her long-tense muscles begin to relax. Eddie started explaining more about wireless communication and covert cellular devices. With each sip her unease and curiosity faded. A warm calm began to envelope her. Mary took a quill from the table and slipped out of the room while Sophie leaned back into her armchair. The beginning of a laugh began as she reflected on the baroque writing utensil but her mind soon wandered. A glorious dawn streamed in through the sitting room curtains.

There followed sounds of a gentle 'hoot' from the kitchen, a window sliding open, and a rustle of feathers, but Sophie didn't register the noise. Her attention was absorbed in the motes of dust glittering delicately in the morning light.

TRISTAN had been sitting on the top step for outside of forty-five minutes, head in his hands, reeling over his mistake. He'd broken the Statute of Secrecy in a big way by bringing a Muggle into a wizarding household. While overwhelmed by his guilt, furious jabs of injustice still broke through the surface. His father was a Muggle, after all. Eddie lived in the house and made tea in the same kitchen where Tristan's mother stocked first aid potions. His father's landscaping business only got those huge contracts because, Tristan suspected, Mary charmed the flowers into blooming year round and hexed away the snails.

It was stupid, though—inexcusably, illegally stupid—for Tristan to bring Sophie over. But how could his parents expect him to live one life at Hogwarts, another in Muggle London, and keep the two apart? He'd gone fifteen years (well, nine, he conceded) living a double life and respecting the Statute. He'd gone all the way through Muggle primary school lying about his family and never being able to have mates round. Was it so wrong for him to, for once, want to do something normal?

He'd met Sophie at Amy's party the night before and she'd been interested in him. Not interested in the curious, prying way everyone else was—including Amy. Sophie hadn't asked probing questions about his 'school in Switzerland' or what his mother did for a living. The pair of them had talked about music and films and she'd seemed perfectly content to let Tristan wear his protective shroud of secrecy. He'd never meant to bring her to his house, but what was he supposed to do?

Tristan had had a lot to drink on top of other things, and after midnight he'd started to feel like he might start talking too much. Instead, he 'd decided to do the smart thing and walk home. Then Sophie said she'd fancied a walk as well. It's not like he could have just said 'no,' even if he wasn't dull enough to think she really only fancied a walk.

And it had been Sophie who'd suggested they walk through the park, and then that they sit on a bench and spark a spliff. And when Tristan had said 'well my house is this way,' she'd replied, 'I'll walk you.' And when they were at his door she'd snogged him, and they'd snogged for a long time. And when Sophie had asked him if he would show her his room Tristan knew she didn't want to see it just because no one else had, but because _he_ would be in it.

The doorbell rang, and Tristan watched his mother rush to answer. "Arnie, thank you so much for coming. This is just—you're a lifesaver, really. I didn't know what else to do."

"All part of the job, Mary, no need to fuss. You've done plenty of favors for me over the years, and boys will be boys, eh?" he chortled. "Best to take care of this without too much of a mess anyway. If we let it go it could get very complicated indeed, and no one in Reversals or Enforcement would appreciate the paperwork, I can tell you."

Tristan recognized Arnold Peasegood as an Obliviator from the Ministry and felt another stab of misery. He'd known what to expect, but the reality was humiliating and devastating in equal parts.

"So where's this girl? Sophie, is it? You've given her something to calm her down?"

"Yes, yes, she's just here," Mary said, showing him into the sitting room. "Eddie's been watching her, rattling on about MI6 and Muggle technology,"

Tristan crept down a step to get a clear line of sight.

"Hah! Good man." Mr. Peasegood clapped Eddie on the back before directing his attention to the matter at hand "So, Sophie. You met Tristan at a girl named Amy's house?"

"Yeah," she replied in a dull voice.

"And then you came back here, and you saw strange pictures?" The obliviator took out his wand.

"Uh-huh." Sophie was slouching in her armchair and gazing absently at some fixed point in space.

"That was some strong stuff, Mary," he muttered out the corner of his mouth. "And were you drinking at this party, Sophie?"

"Uh-huh."

"Ok." Mr. Peasegood turned his wand on her. "So last night, you made the mistake of drinking too much, and felt quite sick. Tristan, the gentleman that he is, took care of you. You woke up and found nothing unusual in his house. Now Mary is going to drive you back to this Amy-girl's. Do you understand?"

Tristan would have been crying, if he ever cried. Had it been his nature, he would have felt immense self-pity for his lot in life. Instead, he found himself mired by self-loathing, eyes dry. Especially so, as he'd accidentally slept in his contacts.

Tristan felt the urge to pounce the Obliviator and insist that not everything from the previous night be forgotten. Then again, he suspected that Mr. Peasegood was not completely oblivious. This was Tristan's punishment for acting so foolishly.

A curl of smoke twisted up through the air toward the ceiling. Tristan had looked at little else in the week since Sophie had been obliviated. The record player, which usually blasted at full volume whenever he was home, sat silent and untouched in the corner and trays of food lay stacked in a heap beside his bed. His parents hadn't bothered grounding him. To do so would have been redundant. Tristan had barely left his bed in days.

"Bring him a tray?" his mum's voice floated up from the kitchen.

"He'll just stay in there if we keep bringing him food. Let him come down when he gets hungry."

Tristan could imagine his father's shrug, his mother's bitten lip.

"I dunno," Mary's distant voice sighed. "You know how his appetite gets when he's like this. Remember back when he was six?"

Tristan glanced at his cigarette, tipped with three centimeters of cylindrical ash, and realized it had gone out. It had been his last one.

Dressing for the first time in a week, he seized his headphones and rucksack and stepped out of the smokey bedroom into the hall.

"That you, son?" Eddie called as footfalls creaked on the stairs.

 _Who else would it bloody be?_ Tristan thought.

"Where are you off to, then?" Mary asked in too bright a voice.

"Out," was all Tristan said as the door snapped shut behind him.

The sun blazed bright and he squinted, accustomed to the gloom in his bedroom. He needed enough tobacco, papers, and spliff to last at least the first few weeks at Hogwarts. But only so much could get passed off as 'potions ingredients' before Filch got suspicious.

It was fully dark by the time he returned home, rucksack stuffed with contraband and the last of his summer spending money depleted. His parents were sat up in the sitting room but none of the lamps were lit, as though they hadn't noticed that the sun was set.

"Did you have a nice day?" Mary tried, but Tristan only shrugged as he set up the stairs. Then the phone rang and he stopped in his tracks, listening hard while Eddie picked up.

"Oh hi Dan, yeah we're booked for tomorrow…"

Just his dad's co-worker. Tristan's heart sank and he slammed his bedroom door without meaning to. It had been stupid to think that the phone had been for him. Sophie wouldn't be ringing again.

He'd spoken to her once, the day after she'd left his house, while his parents were at work. She'd said she was embarrassed he'd had to take care of her, thanked him for being such a gentleman, and was grateful that his mum hadn't told her mum what happened. She spoke to him like one might speak to a near-stranger and Tristan thought about the proverb about trees falling in forests and whether or not they made sounds. Before, it had seemed obvious that they did, even if no one was around to hear. Now, the answer seemed less sure. _If Sophie didn't remember, did it even count at all?_

"Sure, no problem," was all he'd said before they rung off.

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 _A/N:_ _As some people have expressed curiosity, I'll let you know now-Sophie does not return in any significant way. But the next chapter (the official Chapter One) introduces the central characters; I hope you'll find them much more engaging than Sophie ever was!_

 _End Notes:_

 _1\. Arnold Peasegood is a character first mentioned in_ GoF _, as one of the Obliviators at the 1994 Quidditch World Cup. Because the Wizarding World is such a teeny population, I tried to recycle as many briefly-named characters from canon as I possibly could._

 _2\. Tristan's mum is Mary MacDonald_ , _mentioned in_ DH.

 _I know that this is a very different sort of story so I'm very interested to hear what people make of it :)_

xoxo

Roisin


	2. The Hex Head Express

**The Hex Head Express**

 _Faceclaims: teenage Kat Dennings as Isobel, skins-era Hannah Murray as Emily, Chloe Sevigny circa 1990s as Laurel_

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ISOBEL listened while her parents repeated a thousand-and-one reminders for the upcoming term. As with every year, they'd arrived at King's Cross station an hour before noon but she was still one of the last on the platform after the other students had boarded.

"And don't spend too much time cooped up in the library," her mum said. "Be sure to keep your grades up but try to get some fresh air and exercise in when you can."

"Right, yes." Isobel nodded at the contradictory advice.

Her mother began smoothing her hair, dark and course and so different from her mum's own blonde curls. They barely even looked related. Mrs. Doge-Mostafa had a complicated sort of face, all curves and hollows and dimples. Isobel looked almost formless in contrast.

While she wasn't rosy like her mother, she was paler than her father and older sister—but pale in a way that suggested she ought not be. Sometimes she liked her swollen-looking lips, but they required lipstick in order to offer some distinction. Without it, Isobel thought she best resembled a bowl of custard that had been left out overnight and developed a skin.

"—And you could always still get it next year, habibi."

Isobel snapped out of her daze to realize that her father had been talking. While she hadn't heard a word of it, she knew what he was on about. No prefect badge had arrived over the summer and her parents hadn't stopped complaining since. ( _But you were top of your year and you've always made the top five! Your sister was named prefect AND Head Girl!_ ) She'd even had to stop her mum from owling Hogwarts to say that there must have been some sort of mistake.

"I still don't know what Flitwitck was thinking," her dad went on. "You're the obvious choice for Ravenclaw prefect, and it'll be harder to make Head Girl without two full years of leadership experience."

Isobel just shrugged and repressed a smirk. With the company she kept, she'd never make prefect.

"Oh that's the whistle!" her mum noted unnecessarily as it pierced the air. More hugs gave way to more reminders until Isobel had to wrestle herself away lest she miss the train entirely.

A familiar chaos had come alive aboard the Hogwarts Express. Frenzied students loitered in the passage, darted between doors, or shouted out for friends they hadn't seen all summer. And the prefects were well outnumbered. It was almost funny to see them try in vain to usher the student body into order, but the hectic thoroughfare was difficult to manage. Isobel began to sweat as she hauled her trunk through carriage after carriage, peering into compartment windows. She'd made it almost to the very back before spotting Emily and Laurel.

 _Of course they'd be in the back_ , she thought. It was obvious from the animated way Laurel was talking that she'd had a charm already. It was barely even noon. Emily must have done it for her, which annoyed Isobel, but then Laurel did tend to insist and grew surly if refused. Isobel closed her eyes and promised to keep from becoming too aggravated. Her patience with Laurel had begun to wear thin over the summer.

Pushing the door open with her trunk she was met with an enthusiastic welcome. "Izzy!" the others roared, pouncing to hug her despite Isobel being barely through the door. They nearly fell over in their affection, trading hugs, kissing cheeks, and ruffling hair. Laurel's excitement was wholly unnecessary; they'd seen each other only the night before.

"Morning Sunshine!" Isobel ruffled Em's hair before rounding on Laurel. "And someone's _cheerful_ early." She tried to keep the sting of judgement out of her voice as she said it.

"Last day of summer, yeah?" Laurel justified. "Gang's all back together—well, nearly. Calls for a celebration!"

Isobel heaved her trunk onto the luggage rack before collapsing into the seat by the window. In the state she was in, Laurel wouldn't care about the view. She was too busy telling some anecdote from her summer anyway.

Laurel could be pretty when she tried, but she never did. What had been a cute bob in their second year had long since grown out to an awkward length. Rather than cut it or style it, she just tugged it back into a hasty bun which exaggerated her garlic-clove nose and the thinness of her lips. Dishwater-blonde strands had a habit of falling loose, and it was hard not to notice how lank and greasy she kept them these days.

Taking cues from Emily on how to arrange her face, Isobel pulled off a passing impression of someone who actually gave a damn about the Muggles of Manchester. Not that it mattered if she hadn't listened to a word of it. Laurel soon dissolved into so much laughter that the story ended prematurely and she never even made it to the punchline. Emily just offered a polite chuckle but Laurel had yet to register the awkwardness.

Exactly on cue, Tristan clambered through the door towing his trunk behind him.

"Tristan!" the three witches chorused, but Isobel was quick to note that he looked pale and exhausted. The headphones around his neck were still playing the Velvet Underground (Isobel recognized them from his attempts to 'educate' her), and it was one of their moodier tracks.

Hugs given and his trunk stowed, he collapsed into the seat beside Emily. There was nothing out of the ordinary about Tristan being forlorn, yet it appeared somehow amplified. He would always get uncharacteristically excited before holidays, explaining to them all about the Muggle nightclubs and cinemas in London and the music magazines he would be catching up on, but he always returned to school melancholy and deflated. This time, Isobel thought, his feelings seemed to manifest physically, in his pallor and the dark circles ringing his eyes.

"Morning sunshine." He nudged Emily, who smiled and hugged her knees tighter to her chest. She'd turned her back against the window in order to face him.

"We missed you at Diagon Alley!" Laurel bounced in her seat. "We saw your mum, and she said you were sick!"

"Yeah sorry," he mumbled, "I was sick."

Laurel pushed past the awkward moment into a blow-by-blow account of their day shopping as the Hogwarts Express finally grumbled to life. The only real interesting point to her story was that Tom the barkeeper had finally served them at the 'Cauldron. Tristan listened patiently and feigned interest (Isobel assumed) until Laurel was done.

"So, I don't mean to be an arse, but…" He lifted one ear-phone, "last chance, you know."

"Here, take the window then." Emily jumped up so he could scoot into her seat. Tristan thanked her before replacing his headphones and resting his forehead against the glass.

 _Definitely moodier than usual_ , Isobel thought before Laurel began dominating the conversation once more.

It was some time before the lunch trolley came by their compartment. Everyone ordered off it save Isobel. It was all crap food anyway, and she much preferred the brown rice and vegetables her mum had packed.

Tristan let his headphones rest around his neck during lunch (even though he still had one ear to the music they issued) and Laurel's charm had worn off enough that she was letting the others get a word in edgewise.

As they had nothing on for the rest of the day except the journey and the feast, Isobel figured they might as well have the best time possible. Tristan at least seemed like he could do with a bit more to improve his mood.

"How 'bout we cheer this place up a bit, then?" Isobel suggested to a resounding chorus of 'yes's' and 'please's.' Clearly they'd all been waiting for her to say something.

"I'll take Laurel's." Tristan raised his hand to smattered laughter. Laurel had already Cheered once that day (at least), so she was likely to overdo her spell.

That was the good thing about him, Isobel thought. Even though he tended to brood, he was self-aware enough to make jokes about himself. It made it less awkward, anyway.

"Let me do Laurel, then," Isobel said, and everyone—even Laurel—laughed. "So Em, you're doing me, and Tristan, you do Emily?"

"Yeah." He winked. I'll do you, Em."

Isobel knew he was compensating for his sullenness but she wished he'd consider his innuendos (and their recipients) nonetheless. Laurel brought down the flimsy blind over their compartment window, eager to get started.

"Ok, count of three," Isobel instructed and each of them raised their wands; Laurel's pointed at Tristan, Tristan's at Emily, Emily's at Isobel, and Isobel's at Laurel. "One. Two. Three—"

" _Hilaris!_ " They cast their spells in unison and Isobel felt awash with warmth, skin tingling as though she'd only just become aware of her edges. Feeling a giggle bubbling up in her throat she looked around at the others. All around her wide grins stretched lips. It wasn't long until their belligerent joy came frothing to the surface.

And then, a toad hopped right into Emily's lap.

"See look, I love the 'happy intense look!' This is what I meant!" Isobel was roused by Laurel's voice, and realized she'd been spacing out completely.

"Happy intense look?" she asked, suddenly aware, but not bothered, that the other three were giggling at her. She'd long since stopped caring about directing the dynamic of the group and let her own mind retreat.

The sun was setting and the wee chandelier above them jingled merrily as the train rocked and jolted. Everyone looked so lovely as they laughed and joked, gesticulating wildly in the rosy light.

"Yeah," Laurel went on. "It's like that Intense Look you get when you're thinking about stuff, but all dopey-like and blissful."

Isobel felt her head loll to one side as she smiled. "Well that's nice."

The others just laughed harder.

"What were you thinking about, then?" Tristan asked. "Non-Western Magical Theory? Because I know it's usually Non-Western Magical Theory."

"I was thinking about…" She tried to remember but couldn't; she'd just been looking at Emily's hair. It fell in a mix of waves and tight ringlets like some Muggle storybook picture of a wood nymph. Isobel had wanted to try pulling on one because she felt certain it would bounce. Reaching forward across the compartment she took a light coil between her fingers and gave it a tug. It bounced just exactly as she had predicted and she giggled, delighted. "I was thinking how pretty Em's hair is."

Everyone laughed and 'awww'd' and Emily leant out nearly to the point of falling down to plant a wet kiss on Isobel's forehead. This show of affection inspired a bout of hugging and 'I love you guys'' amongst the group.

Then the door burst open and they all froze with a gasp.

"Well, well, well," A critical voice called. "Unfettered hugging, curtain rolled down, take a look at these Hex Heads."

"Weasleyyyyyyyyys!" the fifth-years cried at the sight of the ginger twins striding into their comparment.

"Yes this does appear to be a _cheerful_ bunch," agreed George, settling down on the purple brocade beside Laurel.

The Weasley twins were only just starting their third year, but Isobel and her friends much preferred their company to their elder brother, who was their own age.

"Did Master Percival make prefect, then?" Emily asked

"Oh yes," Fred sighed. "And over the summer his head tragically over-inflated and burst."

"We assumed that's why you lot were celebrating," George chimed in.

"Is this not the wake?" Fred asked.

His brother waved an agitated hand before going on. "In all seriousness though, we have much more interesting news than the new Gryffindor prefect. Guess who's on the train?"

The fifth years only blinked and Isobel couldn't even imagine how to begin guessing an answer.

"HARRY POTTER!" the twins yelled when their audience failed to guess.

Tristan looked stunned. "Really?"

Even as Cheered as she was, Isobel was surprised that Tristan was even interested. He didn't usually care at all about wizarding celebrities. Then again, he did have a lot of feelings about the war, which she attributed to his muggle obsession.

"Huh… Yeah I guess he would be 'round eleven now." Laurel shrugged. "I still always picture him as a baby."

They all agreed. For as long as Isobel could remember, Baby Harry had been such an important symbol. And since nothing new had been written about him in ten years, she'd somehow forgotten that he was capable of aging.

"What does he look like? Did you see him?" Emily asked.

"Our mother helped the bleeding thing onto the platform," George gloated. "He didn't have a clue which way was up before we showed him."

Fred nodded emphatically. "He's a ratty looking bugger. Clothes look like charity shop rejects, hair's all askew. And I'm a Weasley!"

"Has he been in an orphanage?" Tristan asked. "I just always assumed he'd been adopted."

"Dunno the details, but we can find out. Little chap has befriended our youngest brother," Fred explained. "Ickle Ronny."

"Newest Weasley to the Hogwarts family," added George.

"Probable embarrassment to the House of Gryffindor," concluded Fred.

As the sun came down and the Hogwarts Express pushed north through the countryside the six students discussed the famous Harry Potter until nothing new could be said. The oil lamps in the compartment flickered to life around the time they passed Aberdeen, and the Weasley Twins soon got annexed by most of their Quidditch team (the lot of whom seemed fanatically consumed by the question of filling some position left vacant by one of the twins' elder brothers, Chuck).

Isobel and her friends found sport rather idiotic, and enjoyed private jokes about the fervor of their fellow students (with the exception of the twins, who, the group had decided, could play Quidditch 'without being complete twats about it.')

The fifth years realized they were approaching Hogsmeade once the music warbling from Tristan's earphones grew crunchy with static.

"About that time then," he sighed, turning off the device and coiling the headphone wire round it.

It was difficult to dislodge their trunks and dig for their uniforms in such a confined space. Laurel cursed a good deal while trying to disentangle the sleeves of her robes. They appeared to have been packed in a hurry without being folded. Tristan soon bowed out to change in the loo and Isobel heard him stumbling down the narrow passage as the train jerked.

"So did Tristan mention anything to either of you about his holiday?" Emily asked, stripping down to her bra and knickers without making any attempt to cover herself or turn away. She'd always been the least modest when changing, and Isobel imagined she probably shocked the Hufflepuff girls in her dorm by wandering around naked or something like that. Then again, _Hufflepuffs._

But of course Emily wouldn't be bothered to hide her body. Waiflike and dainty, she had a perfectly flat stomach and narrow little thighs. Isobel pulled her own nylons up to her bra before taking off her shirt in an attempt to smooth the lines of her hips before saying that, no, she hadn't had any owls from Tristan about his summer. Emily bit her lip with the stress of keeping a secret until she looked like a mouse.

"You've been talking?" Laurel asked and Isobel wished she wouldn't sound so surprised.

"Well… We had a few owls... It's really bad," Emily whispered before catching them up.

The line of boys and the otherwise self-conscious waiting for the toilets was sure to be long, but the girls dropped their voices to furtive whispers just in case he suddenly returned. Isobel's gut sank to hear the story.

"Was it his first time?" Laurel asked as she struggled to yank off her too-small jeans.

"That's what it seems like." Emily shrugged. "And I can't think of anyone else that it could have been."

"Nor can I," Isobel agreed. "That's really awful."

"I know." Emily shook her head. "But let's change the subject, can't we. He doesn't need to come back and catch us all talking about him like this."

Isobel quietly agreed and appreciated Emily's consideration. _Hufflepuffs_ , she thought again fondly. Of course Tristan would talk with her—Emily was by-and-large the most compassionate of the bunch. And while no one would ever guess just by looking at her, she was also the most sexually experienced as well.

The compartment door opened with a bang and Isobel and her friends froze. A wee first year with an unruly brunette mane stood framed in the doorway, eyes bulging as large and round as galleons. The young girl blushed scarlet, clearly embarrassed to have walked in on three half-dressed fifth-years.

"Sorry—Toad?" the little witch spluttered. Isobel and her mates had completely forgotten about the toad's sudden appearance some hours earlier—the screaming, the laughing, and Tristan haphazardly ushering the unexpected amphibian out of their compartment.

The girl scampered off just as quickly as she had come before the others even had time to register what exactly she'd wanted from them.

By the time Tristan returned, Isobel and the others had successfully changed the subject away from Sophie-the-muggle-girl's memory modification and were fully engrossed in a discussion of Penelope Clearwater's many crimes against humanity.

"You on about that bouncy Ravenclaw again?" He dropped back into the seat beside Emily.

"You may judge us for being shallow—" Isobel began.

"—But you don't have to share a room with her!" Laurel shouted around a mouthful of brutalized chocolate frog.

"Oh yeah." He gave Emily a nudge. "So what's your excuse?"

"Nothing specific," she chirped. "I just think she's a bitch."

The compartment exploded into laughter once more. Emily was so rarely mean that it was always something of a treat.

Distant yellow lights blurred behind the frosty glass as the train pushed ever closer to the castle. Isobel felt the cold and wet under the pad of her finger as she traced a spiral in the fog.

"Oh by the way, how much hash did you bring?" Tristan broke the silence. "The twins were asking."

"Oh no, we've corrupted them!" Emily cried. Her genuine concern showed even as she tried to play it off as a joke.

"It's for their dad." He waved a hand. "They smoked with him over the summer and apparently he really rated it. According to them he likes to spark one out in his workroom and polish his battery collection."

Tristan and Emily laughed quite hard at this while Isobel and Laurel offered a polite chuckle. Isobel supposed it was a joke you had to grow up around muggles to really _get._

"Well, I can always get more. My brother grows it, so I can send him an owl if ever we run low."

"Is that safe?" Isobel raised a brow, pulling her attention away from the dark countryside passing outside the windows.

Emily shrugged. "He does the 'potions ingredients' trick. Filch can't tell the difference."

"Besides," Laurel said "Outside of us, it's only the Hufflepuffs who smoke spliff."

"That's how we got our name!" Emily cried, bouncing in her seat. "You know Fred and George swear they saw some weed plants out in Sprout's restricted greenhouse. Then again, they were high when they broke in, so take it with a grain of salt."

"I believe it." Laurel nodded.

Emily beamed. "Let no one say that Hufflepuff House has no ancient and noble traditions."

"Hufflepuff: rolling fat spliffs over a thousand years." Tristan smirked.

The four were silent for a moment, occasionally giggling at the memory of some long overplayed Hufflepuff joke ('Huff le Puff,' and 'Hufflepuff puff pass' being the most amusing to date). Rattling wheels against the tracks seemed so much louder when no one was talking. The urge to introduce some new topic tugged at Isobel before she noticed Emily's lips part with a thought.

"I can't believe Tonks won't be back this year," Emily offered. "What'll Hogwarts be like without her?"

The others murmured in assent but Isobel knew Tonks' graduation left the biggest void for Emily. They'd been in the same House and Tonks was something of an idol to the younger Hufflepuff. All of them would miss her, though. A few years above them, Tonks and her crew had been the only other group like their own at Hogwarts. They hadn't divided neatly along house lines and had provided the model for Isobel, Laurel, Emily and Tristan.

"I guess that makes us the new reigning druggies and Hex Heads at Hogwarts." Laurel chuckled.

Tristan stared out the window as though deep in thought. "I really think," he began. "If Slytherins weren't so categorically opposed to Mug-Drugs, they would bloody _love_ cocaine."

Emily found the idea hilarious but Isobel didn't recognize the reference. Glancing over at Laurel she found that her fellow pureblood appeared equally bewildered.

Tristan and Emily spent a few fumbling minutes trying to explain, talking over one another and waving their hands as though that might help. Most of the context they tried to offer was just as foreign, and Isobel squinted as she tried to make it all out.

"So, like an _Alacratus_ charm?" she summarized, confused. "But those aren't all that strong."

"The important thing," Emily said. "Is that in the Muggle world, it's very sort of posh and elite. Kind of like a status thing."

"Ohhhhhh," Isobel laughed as the joke finally clicked.

Enjoying this new game, she and her mates then spent the next quarter hour debating which Hogwarts House corresponding to which substance. Eventually they all agreed that Hufflepuff was Ganja (as had long been established), Ravenclaw was Speed (for studying), Slytherin was Cocaine, and Gryffindor was Whiskey.

Soon after she felt the Hogwarts Express shuddering to a stop and heard the sound of a thousand students burst to life inside the train.

* * *

 _ **End Notes:**_

 _1\. According the Rowling, there are "about a thousand" students at Hogwarts. That seems impossible, as there would have to be about 35 students per House per year—and Harry's year averaged only about 10 students per House at most. BUT, Rowling's word is LAW, so 1000 it is._

 _2\. The chapter text is a lyric from the song "She's So High" by Blur._

 _3\. "Habibi" is an Arabic term of endearment. It's very casual, and in this context basically translates to "sweetie/darling/etc."_

 _4\. On the Isobel Faceclaim: ugh. So I really didn't want to white-wash my own characters, but it's surprisingly difficult to find a faceclaim for a teenage character of mixed English/Egyptian Arab ancestry who fits all the criteria and has enough moody/interesting photos. So I went with the logic that Kat Dennings is Jewish and Israel is in the Levant and that's sort of near-ish? IF YOU HAVE SUGGESTIONS, I WILL GIVE YOU SO MANY OF MY FIRST-BORNS._

 _Anyway, I hope you liked the chapter! The bit about the adventures of Trevor the Toad was really funny in my head so I hope that came off!_

 _Infinite appreciation goes to Aphoride and Pixileanin for taking the time to so thoroughly beta. (Definitely check out Pix's story,_ Rabbit Heart _if you haven't already. It's one of the most perfect fics I've ever read)._

 _[And as of this writing, I still haven't had a final beta to slap me for dyslexia, so DEF let me know if you see any issues. Whenever I try to fix one thing I end up creating like ten more typos, because editing best resembles attempting to decapitate a hydra.]_


	3. Some Sacred Questions, Some Marijuana

**Some Sacred Questions, Some Marijuana  
**

* * *

EMILY and her mates jerked and bounced in their seats as the horseless carriage sped toward the castle. With the threat of separation looming, they each realized how much more they still had to tell one another. During regular meals, it didn't matter so much where they sat, but Feast Nights demanded House segregation. The twinkling lights of the Hogwarts windows loomed closer and Emily anticipated the loneliness of having to sit the feast without her friends. It wasn't as bad for Laurel and Isobel, both Ravenclaws.

At Isobel's welcome suggestion, they shared another Cheering Charm before passing through the Hogwarts gates.

Emily stumbled out of the carriage and dawdled with her friends at the end of the loose line of students snaking its way up the dark grounds. Voices lowered and footsteps slowed as they drew near to the great oak front doors, each of them grasping at what little time together remained. But eventuality won out, and she found herself in the dazzling Great Hall in no time at all.

"Meet up tomorrow?" Isobel gave her a firm squeeze.

"Yeah, definitely," Emily said, then threw an arm around Laurel's neck before the two Ravenclaws made their way to their own house table. Once alone with Tristan, the air in the Hall seemed to thicken.

"Be strong, little one," he joked.

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder." She smiled, but her heart broke for him.

Tristan had it worst of all. They hugged each other, putting off joining their own tables for a precious few seconds more. Then accepting the inevitable, he sighed before slouching over to join the other Slytherins.

Arriving at the Hufflepuff table, Emily saw Cedric Diggory giving her a wave.

"Budge up there," he called down the table, making room for her to sit.

"Wotcher, Ced," she chimed in homage to Nymphadora Tonks: fearless leader of Hufflepuffs.

"All right, Em." Cedric appeared to have grown about a foot since last term. He was in the same year as the Weasley twins but almost a year older for having a September birthday.

"You look great, Ced. Good Summer?" Out of politeness, Emily didn't specify that his acne had all but cleared.

A hush fell over the Hall as McGonagall marched in the first years. Emily noticed that the Sorting seemed quieter than previous years, before remembering that Harry Potter had arrived at Hogwarts. The other students were probably eager to get a look at him. She picked the Boy Who Lived out at once from the twins' description: skinny, wild haired, and walking alongside yet another ginger Weasley.

Emily thought it appropriate that the famous Harry Potter would become friends with little Ron. She'd seen five Weasley boys during her time at Hogwarts and they seemed like a kind of school institution. Being Muggle Born, Emily figured that the wizarding traditions she observed were likely different from what some snooty-ancient-bloodline-Slytherin might recognize. But they appeared real to her nonetheless.

The sorting was dull and the arriving class was much larger than her own had been. Not recognizing any but two of the children she had little to do except cheer for new Hufflepuffs. She glanced over at Tristan hoping to make faces as they usually did at the sillier names. Finally McGonagall read an absolutely perfect one: ' _Longbottom_.'

Tristan's head jerk up but he didn't look over at Emily. Even when little Longbottom tried to abscond to his table still wearing the sorting hat, he didn't laugh.

The Sorting finally concluded after the better part of an hour. Super Baby Harry Potter had ended up Gryffindor—to exactly no one's surprise—and Dumbledore made his perfunctory absurd remarks before the gleaming platters filled with food. Emily's section of the table included a good portion of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team so the conversation ultimately steered in that mind-numbing direction. Not knowing or caring about the terminology, Emily entertained herself by sculpting mashed potatoes with her fork.

After some time working on a potato model of her family's compound, she looked up to realize that Tristan had been watching her, red-faced from trying to withhold his laughter. _What?_ she mouthed, but he simply shook his head and laughed harder.

Terence Higgs must have noticed because he smacked Tristan in the back of the head as he passed. Emily clapped her hand over her mouth in surprise before bursting out laughing alongside Tristan at the stereotypically Slytheriny display.

It was reasons like these, Emily thought, why the whole school assumed that Emily and her mates were a bunch of weirdos and Hex Heads. But she didn't care, and the knowledge that they were being absurd only augmented her and Tristan's long-distance-laughing fit.

Across the Hall at the Slytherin table, a Cheering Charm was really all Tristan had to buffer against outright suffering. Emily felt guilty that she had been complaining so much, even if it was only inside her own head. She gazed up at the enchanted ceiling into the glittering night sky. Privately, she promised herself that she would never, ever, take that ceiling for granted.

Before she knew it, the plates cleared themselves. Dumbledore reminded the students that the Forbidden Forest was, as the name implied, _Forbidden_ , and the Hall exploded with the echoes of scraping furniture and the din of hundreds of young voices.

Emily paused to wave at the Headmaster before following her House out of the Hall. Dumbledore waved delicately back, his eyes twinkling.

This tradition had started in Emily's first year, when she was still terrified and shy. She'd arrived at Kings Cross Station clutching a redwood wand, a suitcase full of magical books she couldn't understand, and a million anxieties. To make matters worse, she had the misfortune of sharing a compartment with now-Quidditch-star, Marcus Flint. He'd teased her ruthlessly, eventually reducing her to tears.

Even though she'd never heard the word before, Emily had guessed correctly what ' _mudblood_ ' might mean. She spent most of the remaining train ride hiding in the girls' toilets.

Later, she was sorted into Hufflepuff, or 'the Idiot House' according to Marcus, who hadn't been great with off-the-cuff puns. She'd felt so miserable that she wanted nothing more than to just go home and forget about learning magic all together.

Then during the feast, Emily had started to have fun. Tonks, a fourth-year at the time, had seen the first year trembling quietly down the Hufflepuff table. Surely, Emily's face had looked as mortified as she had felt. After ordering some other Hufflepuffs to rearrange seats, Tonks had plopped down next to her.

At first Emily had been shocked when the older girl had changed her hair color from Hufflepuff-yellow to hot pink. By the time Tonks managed a near-perfect impression of the Headmaster's long, crooked nose, Emily was laughing.

They spent the rest of the feast talking, and Tonks answered whatever questions popped into Emily's head about the magical world. When she finally confided in the older Hufflepuff about what Marcus had called her, and her anxiety about her family's status, Tonks grew furious and offered to 'curse the Slytherin git what said that.' She'd promised Emily that only the worst sort of wizards cared about one's heritage.

That night when Emily was getting up to leave the feast she'd briefly made eye contact with the apparently great and famous Headmaster. Tonks had told to her all about Dumbledore and his many accomplishments, _and he had waved to her!_ Stunned, Emily had waved back. It was a ' _see, it all worked out_ ' sort of wave, and Emily promised herself that she would remember it.

Accordingly, every major feast since her first, Emily made sure to wave to Dumbledore before "trotting off" to the dormitories—and every feast, he seemed to expect it.

Emily leaned far out of her circular common room window to blow out a plume of cigarette smoke. While she could get rid of the smoke smell afterwards, she didn't want to upset her Housemates with it in the meantime.

She didn't smoke often, because she knew her parents wouldn't like it, and she had made a rule never to smoke alone. At that moment, however, it seemed like a nice time to break the rule. The grass outside the window rippled in the gentle late-summer breeze and the peppering of dandelions shone bright under the moonlight.

She was just stubbing out her fag on the stone windowsill when a big black owl landed on the ledge beside her—Tristan's owl, Siouxsie. Emily detached the letter.

 _Keen, I know. Siouxsie just got in from mum and dad (they have this whole rant about how it's kinder to let her fly here then to make her stay in a cage for the trip up, and I won't bore you with it). Anyway, Higgs and Flint have already started their campaign of terror, but I've got something up my sleeve! I bought 31 posters this summer, all muggle bands (obv), and I perfected a sticking spell. I trust they're both too dim to undo it, and Pritchard isn't much good at anything except potions and curses anyway. They should stay up a while._

 _Anyway, what's up?_

 _-T_

 _PS, continuing with the same electives this term?_

 _PPS, I'm reading Slaughterhouse 5._

Emily padded up to her dorm and rummaged through her trunk for parchment and ink, striking an awkward balance between quick and quiet, trying not to knock over any of the many potted plants in the dark. Once back in the common room, she climbed onto the back of one of the striped armchairs in order to reach the window. Perching herself on the sill circular sill, she jotted down her reply.

 _How in the bleeding hell does your owl deliver you post in your dorm?! You told me the Slytherin lair was under the lake! Anyway, I'm continuing with Creatures, and decided not to drop Divination (it's a load of rubbish, but I get good marks, and I might as well try for an E on the OWL before I drop). Also, Amisha (our prefect) told me we have double potions together first thing tomorrow! Seems cruel of the admin to schedule Hufflepuff and Slytherin together for potions, but I'm not complaining. Hopefully some of Snape's crush on you will rub off on me, House prejudice be damned!_

 _Who are the posters of?_

 _I'll roll another fag in the event that Siouxsie doesn't drown delivering this._

 _xoxo_

 _Emily Sunshine Madley_

She signed her full name with her big, swooping signature, considered for a moment, and then added a postscript.

 _PS: have you listened to Nirvana at all? They have a new album coming out this month and it's supposed to be ace. I heard their first record and I suspect they might have distilled you as a person in order to make it._

 _PPS: How's Slaughterhouse 5? I loved Breakfast of Champions._

Emily had just lit her second fag when she saw Siouxsie diving toward her window with Tristan's reply.

 _Never question Siouxsie! Her powers know no bounds! If you liked Breakfast of Champions, you'll like Slaughterhouse 5. Ditto on Magical Creatures, plus Muggle Studies again. On a related note, just saying "Snape" and "crush" in the same sentence makes me need a shower. And there I go doing it, great. Anyway, I've got about a third of the posters up—the Smiths is hanging on our bathroom ceiling, so hopefully T or M will get a face full of Morissey when they least expect it._

 _I bought "Bleach" on tape this summer, but I haven't gotten around to it yet. If it's my soul distilled or whatever, then I will be sure to snap it in two at my earliest convenience. Also, I found this new band, Blur, that I think you'll like. We should start making a list for the next Hogsmeade visit._

 _Bleach by Nirvana_

 _Leisure by Blur_

 _The Fairies? The Nymphs? The Doxies? Whatever, the one you were gushing about on the train._

The sun was thinking about rising by the time she finally surrendered to bed. Her and Tristan's letters had grown longer and longer, and their 'to do' list of records reached several centimeters of parchment. She'd smoked too many cigarettes to pass the time between notes and had developed a sore throat and stuffy nose as a result. She wondered vaguely whether a PepperUp potion would fix it, but that was only a distraction from the main question she was avoiding. Tristan had signed his last letter with a swooping parody of Emily's own signature, right down to including his middle initial.

She knew better than to ask about it again.

The girls had only even discovered he had a middle name when they all swapped exam results the previous year. At first they all found it amusing that Tristan might have an embarrassing name, but he'd become almost hysterical trying to quell further discussion.

Surely no name could be so embarrassing that someone would guard it as vigilantly as Tristan had done. After all, Emily's middle name was 'Sunshine,' and she was alright with it.

"Maybe it stands for 'Rape,'" Laurel had joked, seeing his inappropriate levels of dismay.

" _Shut up about it_ ," he'd hissed, sending paranoid glances around the Great Hall.

Despite how little sleep she got, Emily woke up at once the following morning. The copper lamp over her four-poster switched on automatically at half eight, bathing her in warm yellow light. Tearing off her patchwork quilt, she rushed towards the washrooms and showered underneath the burnished tap.

After throwing on a pair of robes she raced down the stairs toward the Great Hall, mousy hair still damp. Emily was usually the only student to sport wet hair at breakfast, since magically drying made it go frizzy and she never bothered with hair styling potions. She was the first of her friends to breakfast, as usual, since it was her job to save seats at the Hufflepuff table.

Hufflepuffs were more open to sharing their space with other houses, and with Tonks and her crowd gone, there was no longer an established precedent for major cross-house fraternization. Isobel was the first to arrive, dragging a sullen and puffy-eyed Laurel.

"Pass coffee, add arsenic," Laurel croaked, before collapsing into her seat and dropping her head into her crossed arms.

Isobel looked annoyed as she climbed into the seat beside Laurel. "Morning, Sunshine."

"Morning," Emily chirped as she poured a coffee for Laurel.

"Oh don't encourage her, she can do it herself." Isobel glared down at the back of Laurel's head. "She can also learn how to wake up herself, can't she?"

"Just give me a Cheer, will you?" Laurel's muffled voice begged.

"No! It's the first bloody day back!" Isobel's fork clattered angrily as she measured out neat little portions of scrambled eggs and fruit.

"Just a little one? Please."

Isobel made a frustrated sound. "If you overdid it last night then you should know better than to overdo it today."

"Why do you hate me?" Laurel moaned.

Emily nodded to the time-table in Isobel's hand, eager to change the subject. "So what have you got on today?"

"First thing off is Transfig—" Isobel was interrupted by another outburst from Laurel. The exasperation sounded to Emily like a cross between a groan and a scream.

"Bad time?" Tristan's voice sounded behind Emily as he took the space beside her.

Laurel's head popped up and she fixed him with a commanding stare. "Tristan. In the name of Merlin, Cheer me."

" _Hilaris_ ," he conceded without question.

"You shouldn't have done that." Isobel shook her head, defeated. "She's been doing this all summer."

Tristan's spellwork did manage to end to Laurel's whinging though, and the four were able to carry on comparing timetables.

"Identical schedules," Laurel trilled and she gave Isobel a nudge, oblivious to how it annoyed her friend. "Same Ravenclaw timetable, plus Runes and Arithmancy."

"I think I might skive off Binns this term. I'm not really bothered about the O.W.L. anyway," Tristan mused while buttering another slice of toast. "Anyway, me n' Sunshine have got Snape in a bit. Smoke?" He raised his thumb and forefinger to his lips—the universal sign for ' _spark a spliff._ '

The others agreed, even though Isobel didn't smoke before classes, and they all headed out to the grounds. Once behind the furthest greenhouse from the Entrance Hall doors, Tristan lit the joint and passed it. They made quick work of finishing, since Emily and Tristan still had to make their way down to Snape's dungeons for double potions.

Twenty minutes later, Emily and Tristan pulled open the heavy door into the potions classroom. She was glad that she was arriving 'late' to her double potions session with the Slytherins. Technically they weren't late, but they were the last to arrive, which felt to Emily like the same thing. At least in Snape's class.

She knew how brazen it seemed to the class—Hufflepuffs on one side, Slytherins on the other—for Emily and Tristan to take a table together at the back. He was a much greater fan of the subversive than she was, at least openly, but she enjoyed the entrance nonetheless.

Once they'd seated, Snape rose and glided between rows of tables, unexpectedly criticizing petty flaws and docking points in his usual method of keeping students on edge while he lectured. Emily scribbled on without flinching when Snape swooped past her. She felt guilty that she alone of the Hufflepuffs was immune to the potions master's intimidation, because she alone had a talisman against it. Snape began the class by explaining the devastation that a Potions O.W.L. below 'Exceeds Expectations' would affect. To him, this was a perfect reason to expect his students to work on a highly complicated concoction for the duration of the double period. In this model, Emily thought, any mistake would result in failure. There were dozens of steps in the process and even if executed perfectly it would take the whole of class-time to complete.

"Let's just throw the potion, get kicked out, and take the morning," Tristan whispered.

"No," Emily hissed, individually re-counting beetle eyes.

By the end of class Snape had unjustly kicked out four Hufflepuffs and sent one badly burnt Slytherin to the Hospital Wing. Most students moaned over ruined potions or worked furiously to prevent them issuing any more foul smelling gas or shooting off blinding sparks.

"Three times anti-clockwise, now one time clockwise," Emily instructed before adding six and a half drops of bobotuber pus to the brew. She had adopted the leadership role and Tristan seemed perfectly happy, if not amused, to be following her instructions.

Snape slinked over to their workstation.: "Very good Mr. Bryce, but perhaps stir more slowly. This may be the best of the class; ten points for Slytherin."

* * *

 _A/N: I'm sorry I've taken SO LONG posting this update! I've been posting here sort of as I revise. If anyone wants to read past where I've updated, the full novel is up at HPFF._

 _Also I'm all smiley and giddy because Y5 just won a Dobby! Ah! *tosses confetti*_

 _End Notes:_

 _1\. On the music and literary references: it isn't necessary to have pre-existing knowledge of these bands or books. They're more to set the tone of the era. 'Siouxsie' is a reference to Siouxsie and the Banshees—a new wave punk band first formed in 1976 (Tristan's the sort of guy who names his owl after a Muggle.) Morissey is the lead singer of The Smiths—a very melancholy group active during the '80s. Blur is a Britpop band that released their first album, Leisure, in August of 1991. Slaughterhouse 5 and Breakfast of Champions are both books by Kurt Vonnegut. And, because we're talking about angsty teenagers in 1991—Nirvana can't be avoided. Bleach was released in 1989, followed up by Nevermind in September of 1991. Nirvana was significantly influenced by The Pixies (who Tristan misremember as The Doxies)._

 _2\. The title is a lyric from the song "Gouge Away" by the Pixies_

 _3\. At the end of the last chapter I mentioned "a thousand students," while here, I described "hundreds of young voices." So while JK Rowling's word is divine law I also said that Harry's class was much larger than Emily's had been. Therefore, in order to resolve the paradox, I switch randomly every time I describe the total student body, because: magic._

 _4\. The character 'Reece Pritchard' is derived from 'Graham Pritchard'—named in The Goblet of Fire, and Sorted into Slytherin. Reece is his cousin._

 _5\. Emily's Wand is Redwood, with a Unicorn hair core, twelve inches, and delicate. According to Pottermore: '[Redwood wands] are strongly attracted to witches and wizards who already possess the admirable ability to fall on their feet, to make the right choice, to snatch advantage from catastrophe'—for that reason, they are considered lucky._

 _From the online wood database: 'Redwood heartwood color can range from a light pinkish brown to a deep reddish brown…Figure such as curly grain and/or burl clusters are occasionally seen… Redwood lumber is very soft and lightweight, with a decent strength-to-weight ratio.'_

 _And from Pottermore again: 'Unicorn wands generally produce the most consistent magic, and... are generally the most difficult to turn to the Dark Arts. They are the most faithful of all wands,' but 'are prone to melancholy if seriously mishandled, meaning that the hair may 'die' and need replacing.'_


End file.
